Sorting Out The Pain
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: Sherlock watches over John from afar, recapping to himself once again what John is going through, what he did, and how he plans on fixing things. .:. Post Reichenbach. rambly drabble. Johnlock.


**A/N: Random post-Reichenbach Fall drabble of the Johnlock nature. It's kind of odd; deifnitely a ramble, definitely because it's 5:00 in the morning and I don't know why I'm up (and know less why I'm attempting to write, which is a messy attempt, let me tell you), but nevertheless, this is being posted and it's going to stay that way.**

**So... read and see if you want to bother with it or not, and if so, thanks for giving it a shot! **

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><p>Three years can feel like a millennia if you're suffering the grief (and all its five, ugly stages) of losing someone closest to you, someone closer to you than anyone else in your life at the time (in some ways closer than family; in some ways, incomparable).<p>

But somehow, even then, it doesn't quite do justice to what he's going through.

I'm no expert. I only know through observation of others over extensive periods of time. But even I can safely say (because my deduction in this, I know, is spot-on) that his pain is unlike most others on the planet, because his circumstances are unique, to be vague.

To be specific, John Watson is still attempting to adjust, even after all this time, and is still cautious around our flat at 221b Baker Street because he is trying so very passionately to hold on. To believe in me, and what he thinks is the truth (which, incidentally, _is _the truth, despite the lie I told him in what he knows to be my final moments).

I gave him enough hints, I think, to preserve this careful thought, this belief that has become weaker and weaker within him the longer I wait to reveal myself to him, but it remains nonetheless.

I told him, "It's a trick, it's a magic trick," in careful present tense (because I can be a bit of a stickler for proper grammar, because it shows intelligence), contradictory to my past tense said the sentence before.

I told him, "Keep your eyes fixed on me," and asked him, "Will you do this for me?"

I wanted him to see, in all moments of (what John would previously state as, were he still writing his blog and were it not about me, "Humpty Dumpty's Great Fall;" yes, funny, isn't it? Moriarty would appreciate the use of a known child's tale, I'm sure) my staged suicide, where the turn was that lead to the prestige.

Because it is, after all, a magic trick.

The ball I was playing with in the lab before I left for the incident; age-old trick: stick it under your armpit to cut off the circulation in your arm long enough to feign having no heartbeat when someone's checks for your pulse in that same wrist.

And that is only a minor detail. The rest is, admittedly, a Moriarty trick: using people, paying off people, keeping people quiet.

Manipulation, plain and simple. I despise it; I prefer brutal honesty to tricks and lies. But when dealing with a master of both, it is difficult not to retaliate (childishly) in the same manner.

(But I won, hadn't I? Against the would-be King of Crime? – I saw him shoot himself, saw him lie on the rooftop, half-grin frozen in place, eyes staring up at nothing – but then again, if I could fake death while stepping off a building, couldn't he, then, fake death with a bullet to the head? For once, I am unsure. I need more evidence, more leads to go on. Have none, even after three years. Bothers me, like the annoyance of a woodpecker to my skull, but I have no choice but to wait and see if James Moriarty shows his face or trademark again.)

Ah, yes, but returning to the topic of John Watson, my loyal, trusted, (only true) friend: his pain hardly fades, even following (approximately) thirty five months' worth of time to "heal" (I never truly understood emotional pain or why people need time to cope with it and ease it, but now I think I do), because his belief in me keeps him locked into it. He struggles with saying my name, with referring to my death, with moving on, even now, because he still refuses to believe that I am truly dead.

And for this, I am filled with a sense of pride, because I led him well, and was right to put my faith in him. He does know me as well as he said he did; he knows that I wouldn't commit suicide, not truly, because I detest it and think it to be pointless for me, because I am too full of myself, as he might say, to do it. And he knows that I was in a difficult situation ((the media thinking me a fake, Moriarty playing innocent, and what John doesn't know: his life (among others' lives) at stake for mine, something even I couldn't and refused to allow, because I would never let John die, would never let Mrs. Hudson die, and would certainly not be pleased if Lestrade died, because he is, thus far, the only person on the police force who allows me to do what I like to do, solve crimes)), and had (nearly, perhaps, in his mind) no way out but to, well, fake my death, as an option. Much like The Woman did, but this time, I was saving much more skin than solely mine.

There it is, in short: John Watson, with each passing day, is more and more hurt (by me) because time makes him doubt his beliefs, that I'm alive, and therefore solidifies his pain.

His limp has returned. The psychosomatic "wound" in his leg has returned with a vengeance, most likely due to his depressed mental state. His body makes his internal pain feel real. I wince a bit, internally, every time I see him with his blasted cane again.

But I can't reveal myself. Not yet. I need to ensure his (and every else's) safety first. Once I know that is secure, I can slowly come back to his everyday life. Be his flatmate again, take cases by his side once more, and renew our friendship.

(Or, what I deem "friendship." I don't particularly enjoy thinking about – _dwelling on_, subsequently – the true nature of our relationship. The status is, technically, at the "best mate" level, but I fear – yes, genuinely fear – my true feelings for my dear doctor, the little blogger. He stirs emotions within me that I didn't know I possessed at all, didn't think I was capable of having, and yet, there they are, bursting within me, chemicals in my brain causing my body to react, insisting, it seems, that I – _well _– love him. Care for him, of course, but I mean the tragically dull sort of _love_ that is concocted with the sole intention of being pathetically _normal _and therefore _irrational. _– Perhaps not entirely irrational when it comes to John, I suppose, because he is the only person in the world whom I've had the chance to meet whom actually _encourages _my way of thinking and is _continually impressed _by my observation skills and is awed by me, respects me fully, and gives a damn whether I live or die, no qualms – but there it is, I suppose. Love, for John. _My _love for John. My dearest Watson, a man of intelligence and stupidity, of raw emotion and control, of beautiful paradox, much like the world itself; something I used to pride myself on being separate from, and not can't seem to resist being a part of.)

Topic at hand, returned from digression: I wish to help him. John. I wish to ease the burden I've left on his shoulders, the burden of grief and doubt.

It's only a matter of _when. _The timing must be right, both for him, and for me.

Because the more I watch him from the shadows, protecting and observing him, the more I realize how painful it is for me to even consider approaching him.

I want him to punch me. Be angry. Call be a "dirty, rotten bastard" for pulling such a horrid practical joke (because he wouldn't know of Moriarty's intensions for him and the others, now, would he? – I could have deduced it were our roles reversed, but they're not, so I'll drop that tidbit) on him, on _everyone. _

But I know he won't. He'll cry. Even if it is only a tear, I know John. I've watched John. And he will cry, perhaps even move in to clutch me, hold me; and I won't know what I will do. _(And not knowing myself? Not knowing my own actions, my own reactions? That frightens me more than when I don't know about others. More than the mystery of Irene Adler and her lack of tells; because, as disturbing that was for me, as foreign as it was, I have never not known my own probabilities of thought and action. It's… so unlike me that I might as well be someone else.)_

He's leaving a bookstore at the moment. He didn't purchase anything; he didn't plan on it. I can tell by the way he is glancing into other stores that he hasn't brought any money with him today, and feels the loss of not being able to purchase things on a whim. No, he went to the bookstore for another reason: research.

I think, even now, he is trying to find me. Figure out my secret. Even after his therapist (and other acquaintances) have surely told him to forget all about me and leave me in the past, in his memories, where I belong.

But after knowing someone like me, after living with me, John can't. And I am honestly (if not oddly) proud of him for defying them all (even my brother, who has most likely approached him about me more than once; I have found evidence of four times at the least) and continuing his faith in my abilities.

I smile a little to myself and withdraw my phone. It's a new one, of course, because I didn't want to be traced. I dug one out of a trash bin and re-assembled it, and proceeded to use a few (illegal) methods to pay for a plan on it, using names of people I don't know (borrowed identities, ones I will return when I can; but it isn't costing them anything, so they shouldn't notice or care).

I use it now to send a text to a number I have memorized more than any other.

**Keep believing, John. One day soon you will be proven right all along.**

I don't add my initials, as I normally would. But I don't block my number from him, because the name isn't mine, anyhow.

The response is almost immediate; I see him take out his phone and check it, eyes bulging for a moment before his thumbs fly across the screen to reply.

**Who is this? How do you know me? And what do you mean, you want me to keep believing? In /what/? -JW**

I smile fondly down at the digital response. I turn my back to John's figure across and up the street, flipping up the collar of my coat to help hide my face.

**Doesn't matter who I am. What matters is that you don't stop trying, John.**

**Okay, fine. But trying for /what belief/? –JW**

**In Sherlock Holmes, **I text back. And then I remove the sim card from the phone and crush it beneath my feet. I slide another one in its place, new number for it already popping into my dead from stored memory. Poor John; if only he knew. But I can't let him know, not just yet. This should help, though. This should keep him strong.

I glance back before rounding the corner opposite the one he is waiting to cross. He's aiming for my side of the street, but I know he is heading for the opposite direction. Still, I see him: misty-eyed, glancing around, limp gone (even as he holds the cane off to the side of his leg), brows furrowed, shoulders taunt. The perfect image of the desired result.

He is intrigued; he is hopeful. Puzzled, naturally, but also firmly footed. He's back track, and soon, _soon, _it will pay off (for both of us), and I can finally return home.

I've missed Mrs. Hudson and her not-your-housekeeper services. And I've missed my violin.


End file.
